pitiful peter

I told him often and
I couldn’t have made it clearer.
He needs to stop looking
At himself in funhouse mirrors.
His nose is too wide
His body is just too skinny.
Good looking body parts
He believes he hasn’t any.

He seldom smiles
Even when a comic falls down.
He doesn’t like comedy.
Not even good circus clowns.
He doesn’t read poetry
Unless it is written about him
And his taste in music
Is all based on a passing whim.

He’s thirty years old
But he acts like an adolescent,
Playing the same games
From childhood to the present.
He still dresses like he did
When he was ten years old
And doesn’t clean his room
Not ever, unless he is told.

He plays on the computer
And keeps dead-end employment,
Then gripes about his life
And his total lack of enjoyment.
His ambition level wrecked
Because his family still pays his bills
And lets him hide in his room
That’s the kind of situation that kills.

He has no ups or downs
And takes pills to keep his mood.
He buys toys and gadgets
And lives on his mother’s food.
But, nothing in life calls him
To achieve or excel or to win
In the halfhearted game of life
That he finds himself stuck in.


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